Gran Aventura

I intend to go into town, mail postcards, gather provision for the day, but the day has other plans for me. The same Aussie who often joined us for nights out in BsAs ended up in Iguazu as well and he is along with El Salvador, another BsAs hostelmate, and Irish, a young lad I ate dinner with the night before. We share a taxi to the falls.

A black cloud billows as we sign up for the gran aventura tour and I worry the whole thing is going to be a little corny, but I go with it for once. The rain comes pelting in a full fledged tropical downpour as we take a guided, and open, jeep down to the river. A poncho holdout, I’m drenched to the bone. An older Argentinian woman working the dock asks for my brazo and slips on a clear plastic poncho. Our gear which is by this time drenched as well is nevertheless dropped into dry bags. The power raft driver lets us know the score right at the get go. He accelerates to a ridiculous speed and banks the boat at an angle so steep that the passengers on the side of the tilt can dip their hands in the river. The rain feels like sleet as we shoot ClassIII rapids up river. The sadist captain then points the raft straight towards the maw of a miniature niagra and accelerates. We skirt the torrents and the large, warm drops pour down.


The four of us take a circuitous hiking route around dozens of cataratas, many in coves isolated from the main falls, over a large network of metal grate catwalks. I eat an overpriced salami sandwich and sip on coffee and we backtrack to the boat launch to embark on a short ride to Isla del Sol. No sol, but plenty of rain. From the island, we get a close up view of the cataract that seemed to be on the verge of swallowing us hours before. Next to Garganta del Diablo, it is the most powerful fall I observe in the park.

I revisit Garganta Diablo, with the posse. No rainbows today. In sharp contrast to the morning, we take a languid raft ride back through the mangroves, sans motor, sans rapids, but several alligators lurk in the vegetation. The row man assures us that we’ll just throw in the fat one. Toucans are perched high in the canopy, well out of my camera range.

Parilla is served at the hostel that night and we have entertainment. Brazilian dancers in Carnivale costumes shake their nearly naked booties and grab as many in the audience who are willing to shake along.